


When I'm Like This, You're The One I Trust

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Developing Relationship, Exploration, F/M, Fantasy Fulfillment, Lack of Communication, Lust Potion/Spell, M/M, Sex Pollen, Switching, Truth Serum, sexual identity issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23627503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: After a wild night in Vengerberg, Jaskier confesses his hidden desire to fuck Geralt to Yennefer.Involuntarily drinking a sex potion that forces them to confront their issues is not how he expected to explore his unfulfilled fantasies.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, mentions past - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	1. I've been on my own for long enough (maybe you can show me how to love, maybe)

**Author's Note:**

> All titles from 'Blinding Lights' by The Weeknd. 
> 
> Enjoy x

“Why am I doing this again?” Geralt yells from across the field, irritation clear in his voice.

Jaskier stumbles from behind a tree and eases himself into his spot on the picnic blanket beside Yennefer with a groan. The sorceress barely acknowledges his presence, cooling herself with an ornately decorated fan.

“Jaskier did all the work last night...about time you contributed, pretty boy!”

The Witcher flips her a hand sign that is most definitely not Ard as Jaskier winces in recollection, grabbing for her goblet of wine and drinking heartily.

“How’s your ass?” Yennefer asks, all decorum, as though she were discussing the weather.

“Splendid, thanks.” Jaskier replies dryly in between gulps, blessedly grateful for small luxuries as the cup continually refills, “Exactly what you’d imagine getting fucked by that weapon of a thing...” He gesticulates generally in Geralt’s direction, “...and a strap on...regardless of how small you might think it to be...might feel!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of wordsmith?” Yennefer teases, unable to hide her beautifully crooked smile behind the sweep of the fan in her delicate fingers. She wrinkles her nose in mock distaste at his choice of language, “Recollection doesn’t suit you. That gifted tongue of yours held a much sweeter tune in the moment.”

“Well, if you want to get metaphorical about it, I doubt I’ll be composing any sonnets in that key any time soon.” Jaskier groans, shifting uncomfortably on the hard ground beneath him, “The road is going to be torture...”

“Stop your simpering. Have a drink, enjoy the scenery.” Yennefer instructs. Her dark tresses slip silkily to one side as she redirects her gaze forward, tipping her head appreciatively.

“I’d rather my eyes were gouged out by a strigga, this headache is that blinding...” Jaskier moans, falling back dramatically to cover his shade his eyes from the brightness of the day. He’s vaguely aware of a distant thumping that seems to pound in time with his temple.

“One more glance before you condemn yourself to eternal night!” Yennefer coaxes, her gentle voice at odds with her manner as she forces him back upright with surprising strength.

“You can’t make me!” Jaskier struggles against her hold brattily until she drops him unceremoniously with a thud, eyes still stubbornly closed.

“Is this not enough?” Geralt yells, his irritated bark alerting the bard to his presence as he stares up at the branches fanning out above them.

“Worried the physical exertion will kill you, old man?” Yennefer shouts back, “You sounded like you were going to keel over when you climaxed last night. I’m just looking out for your health!”

“Cheeky.” Jaskier giggles. If he had any doubts without seeing that the respondent was Geralt, the huff that carries across the open field removes any doubt.

“Right. Enlighten me then, why is a shirt not a necessity for this sort of manual labour?” The Witcher returns from across the glade. 

“Trying to sound put out but unable to convey it with his general tonelessness, that’s about alright.” Jaskier grins at Yennefer, who smiles conspiratorially back. 

“Must’ve shrunk in the wash. I’ll get someone right onto that.” The only motion beside him is the languid pouring of another glass of wine, indicating Yennefer intends no such thing.

Without a visual aid now, it takes a second for the exchange to compute in Jaskier’s sleep deprived, lust driven brain.

“Say what now?” Jaskier says intelligently, shooting upright and forward so quickly that his head spins. He hastily brushes his brown mop of a fringe out of his eyes before unabashedly staring. 

Since he began wandering the Continent, it takes a great deal to render the bard by profession even temporarily speechless. Taking in the view before him, he physically slaps both his cheek into redness to ensure he’s not dreaming, mouth agape.

The morning sun illuminates the White Wolf’s pale skin, the stark outline of scars contrasting against the sheen of sweat only serving to enhance the glorious definition of his sculpted form.

His arms are a masterpiece in motion as he works. The muscles in his broad shoulders converge into a wall of delicious mass as he lifts. His torso is mercilessly on display as hefts the axe above his head, tight stomach braced deliciously for impact. The surprising svelteness of his waist leaves Jaskier breathless, as though it were the first time seeing him even partially naked all over again.

The force of the down swing cleaves the wood with a single blow, accentuating the startling power in his sinewy forearms as he brushes the hunk of wood aside effortlessly.

“Oh my....” Jaskier outwardly moans, feeling his poor abused hole clench as his dick jerks in interest simultaneously.

“Don’t blink or you’ll miss the best bit.” Yennefer breathes, just shy of too heavy.

And then, thank the gods above and below, he bends over to place the next piece onto the chopping block.

Encased in all its ridiculously tight, leather clad glory, the Witcher’s ass is prominently and mouth-wateringly on display. He crouches easily, blissful unaware of his enraptured audience as the deep squat only enhances its globular splendour, pants straining to contain his meaty flanks.

“I need to go...get Roach off the...roof...” Jaskier stammers, staggering and backing away as though in a trance. It’s too late by the time he even thinks to hide his cock, wide awake and straining insistently.

“Oh, if you’re going to jerk off, at least let me watch!” Yennefer entreats playfully, eyes wickedly dark.

“Hmm...as much as I love a crowd, this one’s more of a solo performance I’m afraid.” Jaskier says, willing the colour to leave his cheeks. If he could just slip behind the tree and rub one out then that would be the end of it...

“Ah, so it’s a guilty pleasure, then?” Yennefer’s green eyes sparkle and not for the first time Jaskier curses her intuitiveness when it comes to their relationship.

“Heavens help me, how am I going to last until the next town?” Jaskier whines to himself, grabbing himself hard at the base. He has no idea what is in the air here, but he always ends up saying far more than he intends too.

Yennefer narrows her eyes, glancing back to where Geralt is still presenting himself without having any knowledge of doing so then back to Jaskier, staring with desperate longing.

“You want him.”

“And you, in a sort of gross, masochistic way!” Jaskier gasps defensively, planting his hands on his hips as his manhood bobs traitorously in agreement, “Do you think I let anyone’s ex-mistress prod me with a strap on while I’m already getting ploughed by that monstrosity?”

“You want to be inside him.” Yennefer clarifies coolly, announcing his darkest desires to the world as easily as breathing air as Jaskier’s heart plummets into his stomach.

He shuts his mouth, considers lying for a split second, having never voiced this wish out loud. He shivers in the warm summer air, suddenly exposed.

“There’s not much I’d give my voice for, but it’s a near thing.” He admits with a defeated sigh, “Maybe a less significant sacrifice like whores, or boozing… or air...”

“You’ve never asked?” Yennefer presses, interested despite her dull tone.

“It’s not part of our dynamic.” Jaskier argues with a shamed shake of his head, “He fucks me, I take it. He leaves, I follow. Some poetic symmetry in there...His way or the highway, which is inevitably his way anyway...”

“There’s a reason that his kind have survived longer than the golden dragons.”  
“Because their manner twice as atrocious and their beauty incomparable?” Jaskier guesses.

“Because their adaptable.”

“He’s survives because he’s stubborn as an old goat. The old ways have kept him going and he’s not going to part with tradition.”

“When did this stop being about sex?”

“Excuse me?”

“I heard that.” Geralt mutters, appearing as though conjured, not even snapping a twig or disturbing the grass around him despite his formidable size.

He slaps Jaskier hard on the ass as he walks past, the bard shrieking in surprise.

“What have we said about boundaries, Geralt?” Jaskier replies, rubbing his tender posterior. His irritation masks his panic, hoping that was all his keen senses had picked up. All the depressing talk about him never being able to fulfil his heart’s desire has done wonders for his erection, which seems to have wilted.

“If I wanted to hear a pair of hens flap their wings, I would’ve stayed in the stables with Roach.” Geralt says with a snort, leaning down to peck Yennefer on the lips anyway, “Stop getting in his ear, Yen.”

“Well it was the only place I was permitted entry after last night.” Yennefer quips smoothly as Jaskier shivers at the memory before having the decency to bristle in his own defence.

“Right here, you know? And yes Geralt, I’m still rather tender, emotionally and physically, but otherwise fine, thank you for asking!”

“He was always mouthy before I bought him to you, but never so openly defiant,” Geralt continues speaking to the sorceress, pointedly ignoring his travel companion with his back to him.

The brief smile that openly threatens to break out over his face is more of a wonder than any illusion she’s ever cast.

“He is the male embodiment of chaos and I attract it, there was never a question.” Yennefer tucks a strand of silver hair behind his ear fondly, enthralled at the sight of her old lover and friend so enamoured that he can’t even see it himself.

“...walked this earth for centuries and still no manners to speak of it. It’s no wonder that you aren’t tarred and feathered in every city you meander into, destroying things and going on your merry bloody way with the barest of acknowledgment,” Jaskier huffs to himself, still unaccustomed to the silent treatment, “At least I introduce myself before they start throwing things at me!” 

Geralt barely twists his head to eye him over the ridge of his shoulder, golden eyes flashing predatorily.

“Keep running your mouth and I’ll show you how much of a savage I can be.”

Yennefer folds her arms across her chest, barely containing her amusements at the two bickering, sexual tension as pungent in the air as the pollen from the tree blooms. How on earth don’t they realise that they’re in love with each other, prattling on like old fisherman’s wives waiting on shore?

“Yes, yes, my mistake. We all know how the prospect of my public humiliation appeals to your masochist sensibilities. Can we go now? Let’s spare Yennefer our squabbles.”

“But I do love to watch.” Yennefer waggles her fingers temptingly.

“You said that last night.” Jaskier counters, a fond shake of his head counteracting his sternness, “Your brand of watching means active involvement and with all due respect, my ass can’t handle another beating right now, philosophically or otherwise!”

“Not until I’m paid what I’m owed.” Geralt turns fully to Yennefer expectantly.

“Charging for your services now outside of your professional work, Witcher?” Yennefer asks, “Not a bad way to make ends meet during the quiet months, but a bit distasteful in the presence of a former flame, don’t you agree?”

“For the wood.”

“I should be paying you.” Jaskier mutters. Geralt frowns in confusion as Yennefer shares a conspiratorial smile, before pretending to think it over.

“How about one more for the road?” She hints suggestively.

Geralt’s thick eyebrows raise attractively as Jaskier begins to choke unceremoniously on his own spit, huge blue eyes widening impossibly more.

“Please, I’m only human! Melitele have mercy...” He manages helplessly as the two ethereal beings turn the full weight of their glamour on him. His poor ass clenches in protest, while his cock re-inserts itself into the discussion, pointedly shaping the front of his pants.

“Since you begged so nicely...” Yennefer replies ominously. She drops a vial of clear liquid into Geralt’s palm.

“Where was this last night when he was splitting me in two?” Jaskier hiccups as Geralt smiles in spite of himself, turning the liquid over thoughtfully in his palm before popping the cork and sniffing it.

“You didn’t need it last night,” Yennefer intones, before moving past Geralt to deposit a vial in a surprised Jaskier’s palm, “You look like you could use a drink.”

“It’s a potion.” Geralt supplies before Jaskier can so much as inspect the bottle.

“You were going to drug me?” Jaskier squeaks, before staring at the sorceress accusingly, “I thought we’d established very clear guidelines about the importance of consent!”

Yennefer rolls her eyes.

“You would’ve thanked me later regardless!” She waves her hand with the airiness of a being that has been around far too long and cares far too little, “The road doesn’t need to be hard on you. This will loosen you up.”

Neither notice Geralt’s nostrils flare in irritation.

“You do care!” Jaskier mewls sweetly, leaning into her caress as she wraps her thin arms around his shoulders. She laughs, oddly touched, the heady scent of lilac and gooseberries intensifying its comforting shroud around them.

“To ease the ache that ails you.” She whispers conspiratorially in his ear, more like a promise than a secret.

Jaskier doesn’t completely understand. His body, a mess of exhaustion and barely perceptible lust, begins to respond inappropriately to the familial intimacy of their closeness.

“You’re going to make me hard again for entirely sentimental reasons and I so don’t want to do this right now.” Jaskier groans as she giggles, kissing him chastely on the forehead with an almost motherly affection.

From across the field, Roach snorts derisively at the display, flicking her tail impatiently before going back to enjoying a patch of the lush grass.

“With respect to Jaskier’s malleability, having not been on the receiving end of last night’s rather pleasurable exchange, why would I consent to this?” Geralt questions directly, golden eyes flashing warily in the afternoon light.

“The next town is half a day’s ride away., though I assume you’ll push to be there by nightfall,” Yennefer turns sharply from Jaskier, all fondness gone as she eyes The Witcher bluntly, “It might relax you. Dislodge that broom handle that’s permanently wedged up your behind.”

Geralt snorts in amusement but says nothing as Jaskier chortles at the description. The Witcher wasn’t known for his companionable manner on the road, and the month travelling to Vengerberg had been hard on him.

“If nothing else, it should make the heinous job of having to rub chamomile into your saddle sores that much easier.” She teases.  
Jaskier hides behind her billowing black skirts, squeezing Yennefer’s arm in warning as Geralt folds his arms across his still distractingly bare chest. It could be passed off as the sun, but the faintest hint of a blush is almost visible on the hard cut of his cheeks.

“Save it before you accuse the bard of betraying your confidence.” She continues breezily when the Witcher opens his mouth to retort, pinning him with her dark eyes, “It doesn’t take a seer to see the path hasn’t been forgiving, the contracts that bought you here less so.”

“I can look after myself.” Geralt growls, the reverberation shivering down Jaskier’s spine.

“That limp says otherwise.” Yennefer counters, before gliding towards the Witcher, gently pressing the delicate vial clenched in his grip to his chest, “There’s an herb found in the hills of Posada that will help with rapid muscle repair.”

“What else?” Geralt demands, natural distrust deepening his stern gaze.

“The ingredients are all completely natural...”

Yennefer’s vague answer is interrupted by Jaskier swallowing loudly.

“Tangy.” He offers, covering his hand as he burps.

He can feel the warm liquid making its way through his bloodstream. The sensation that follows is a sweeping lull of contentment, like the first breath of spring or the warming embrace of a fire in the heat of winter.

There’s a song in there somewhere, but his head is lost in a pleasant haze.

“Idiot!” Geralt shouts angrily, before grabbing Yennefer and hoisting her bodily against the tree.

“What did you dose him with?” He hisses intently, worry barely concealed beneath the rage darkening his features.

Yennefer responds by dislodging him with a bored flick of his wrist before levitating to the ground. The sky above them blacks as a wall of storm clouds converge on the clearing, rumbling ominously.

Jaskier hurries over, ever the peacemaker. “Honestly Geralt. In the past I wouldn’t have objected to you pummelling her witchy head in, but I’m fine!” 

He claps a hand onto Geralt’s shoulder to pull him away, hopefully distracting him enough to diffuse the situation. He might be exaggerating in his overtired state, but the contact of his hand on the bare skin sends a fissure of tingling through his fingers.

“Better than fine, actually. The soreness is already disappearing.” He murmurs distractedly, staring at his hand in wonder.

“Yen...” Geralt grunts, the barest hint of a threat in his voice.

“Only one way to find out!” Yennefer cackles gleefully, anger dissipating with the last crack of thunder as the sky clears, “I hope I got the portions right...one batch was intentionally stronger than the other but I may have mixed the vials up...”

Geralt curses and dumps his concoction down his throat with a grimace.

“Let’s go.” He says flatly by way of parting, grabbing his shirt off the ground. He grabs Jaskier by his jerkin and preceding to drag him towards their lodgings to collect their things without another word, whistling for Roach.

“That’s Witcher for ‘we appreciate your hospitality and we’ll be back soon!’” Jaskier yells.

“Go easy on each other, boys!” Yennefer calls, “If you begin expressing bodily fluids from any orifice, find something to plug it up with!” 

She leaves them with a cackle befitting of her vocation before disappearing in a gust of black smoke.


	2. I'm going through withdrawals (You don't even have to do too much)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the spell begins to put the travellers on edge, a magic-infused vision reveals Jaskier's true need to Geralt.

The road from Vengerberg to their next destination doesn’t make for smooth traversing.

The terrain is rough and sparse with little vegetation, dirt and desolation stretching as far as the eye can see. Skeletal trees wave their stripped branches in the wind, the only sign of life for miles.

The empty landscape reduces their likelihood of encountering any less than desirable interruptions on their route, though the distraction would be a welcome one for the Witcher.

“Watch your feet.” He murmurs to Roach as they pick their way through the fragments on rubble and avoid small but hazardous potholes littering the path.

His mood is only worsening as the sun beats down relentlessly overhead. Normally the temperature does little to affect him, but the heat seems to seep through every chink in his suddenly too heavy armour. Sweat beads on his forehead.

“Fucking witch.” Geralt grunts, shaking his long white hair out of his eyes in irritation. If only it would dispel the haziness that has settled drowsily in his mind. 

To his own heightened senses, the words sound far away, thoughts coming too slow like slowly dripping molasses.

“If you’re going to swear, at least insult me directly.” Jaskier huffs, eyes fixed in the ground as he picks his way along the path beside him. 

“I was talking to myself, Jaskier.” Geralt grumbles. 

It was tense between them since their departure. Geralt had saddled Roach without so much as a parting glance, almost leaving the bard behind in the process. 

Jaskier had barely had enough time to gather his meagre belongings. He was grateful for whatever concoction Yennefer had gifted him. He was still sore from the previous night’s activities. But the pain wasn’t as remarkable as it should’ve been, chasing after a rider then setting to trudging the miles to the next town. 

“Oh, of course. I’ve travelled with you for months on end, but you’d rather talk to Roach than share your feelings with me directly!” He mutters, kicking at a rock in his path, unable to keep the pettiness out of his voice. 

“I talk to the bloody horse because it can’t talk back.” Geralt grunts, irritation bleeding into his tone as he shifts in the saddle. 

Regardless of Yennefer avouching for the natural ingredients, the Witcher can feel the concoction beginning to assert its influence. Unlike what she had promised, the sensation hasn’t been a pleasant one. He’s been unable to get into the comfortable sway of riding that is normally afforded to him on the road. Posture unnaturally stiff, leg muscles beginning to cramp as though he were completely green rather than an experienced horseman. 

“Firstly, your general disregard for the female gender is deplorable.” Jaskier begins pissily, wincing when he trips and stumbles in a small ditch, “You could at least refer to Roach as a she.” 

“This has nothing to do with the damn horse, does it.” Geralt states flatly, consciously unclenching his jaw and loosening his too tight grip on the reigns. 

“Secondly, your treatment of our generous host was unacceptable.” Jaskier continues rambling, stubbornly ignoring Geralt’s interjection as he works himself up. 

His tongue feels loose and heavy in his mouth, making him even more loose lipped than usual. He would generally class himself as more of a lover than a fighter, whether sparring cerebrally or physically. 

But something has shifted within him, priming him for a confrontation. His palms are clammy, stomach twisting as all the pent- up frustration, the unrequited desires within him, draw dangerously to the surface of his psyche, weeping from his pores and spilling from his mouth like he’s suffered a fatal internal wound. 

“Really.” Geralt deadpans, squinting down at the bard in the too bright light, golden eyes narrowing. His head is beginning to ache, as though he’d drunk his bodyweight last evening despite not touching a single drop. 

He breathes hard in and out of his nose, trying to focus on the rise and fall of his chest rather. His patience, already worn thin, nerves oddly frayed, tempering spiking. 

“Yennefer graciously opened her home to us, offered us food and shelter. Respite and comfort to two road weary travellers whom she owed nothing too, and you couldn’t even say goodbye?” Jaskier accuses, jerking his head heatedly upward from where it had been lowered. 

“Spare me your pretty words.” Geralt says shortly. 

“A dialogue isn’t meant to be singled sided. Why don’t you bloody contribute something then?” Jaskier shoots back defiantly. 

Baited successfully and unable to keep his temper in check any longer, The Witcher, untrue to his regular form, does. 

“I know her better than you, Jaskier,” Geralt bares his teeth, unable to help the venom that spews from his lips, “She does nothing out the charity of her heart because she doesn’t have one.” 

Jaskier scoffs and it only makes Geralt wilder in his anger. 

“Aside from testing her latest potion on two unwilling participants, the benefits were hardly single sided. The sorceress had plenty to gain from our companionship, if I remember correctly.” 

“Excuse me?” Jaskier demands hotly, stopping in his tracks. 

“Forget it.” Geralt continues urging Roach forward, determined to leave it there, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. 

It might have to do with the queer sensation coursing through his veins, the potion rendering him defenceless against its sinister infliction. In truth, for once in storied existence, he feels drained of his very nature. Completely out of control of his own anatomy, the last thing he wants to do in this compromised state is expose himself further with a fight. 

“I will not!” Jaskier huffs defiantly, mistaking the Witcher’s attempts at diffusion for outright dismissal. 

It might be the sun frying what’s left of his self-preservation, or the heady rush of outrage that the potion seems to have amplified, but he decides to bravely punctuate his point by stamping directly into the horse’s path. 

“Fuck Jaskier, how thick are you!” Geralt shouts angrily. His still rapid-fire reflexes save him from tumbling from the saddle, thighs clenching desperately and grip winding into Roach’s mane when she rears up in fear. 

“Apparently very!” The bard replies, leaping out of the way when the horse stamps downwards at him in surprise, “Since I am the clearly the town fool, why don’t you enlighten me.” 

“I didn’t hear her complaining when she was balls deep inside of you with that wooden cock!” Geralt snaps back, adrenaline coursing through his body as he attempts to get his mount under control.

The confrontation has sparked something strange within him, muscles tensed in anticipation, pulse thrumming. His dark pupils expand, blown wide as though he’s downed one of his own magical vials. 

“Right.” All the air punches its way out of Jaskier’s lungs as though he’s been stabbed. He gapes, hand flitting to his chest for a second, beginning to move ahead before he’s even fully comprehended what’s happened. 

“Peace, girl!” Geralt commands as Roach lands with a thud before attempting to throw him off, still spooked. He gives the horse her head in hopes of settling her, allowing her to break into a trot then a canter as she attempts to outrun her racing heart. 

As though whiplashed from the physical jolt, his awareness is suddenly muddled, a stream disturbed by silt. 

“Why the fuck did I say that?” He thinks to himself, shaking his head as he grips the reigns tight, attempting to reconcile his own fractured thoughts. 

The recollection of the previous night’s events descends upon him like a dream, sensuous imagery swirling intoxicatingly in his mind’s eye. 

The scene is set before Yennefer intruded, a rare moment of intimacy between the two old friends. The magic is evident in the perspective, offering an unseen raven’s eye view of the whole exchange.

“Better?” Jaskier had asked, getting to his knees after completing the sensuous process of rubbing chamomile into Geralt’s saddle sore behind. 

Geralt can’t suppress his smile as he watches his likeness, sprawled out naked on the bed. He’s never seen himself so relaxed, chin pillowed on his bruised forearms, rolling his hips lazily against the bed, arousal dragging insistently against the bedsheets. 

It was this strange offer that had initially transformed their relationship from mismatched travel companions to something more, beginning as a mere friendly extension of the bard’s willingness to pull his own weight in their partnership. 

Jaskier hops off the bed, pulling off his doublet as he goes and using it to wipe the remaining oil from his hands. 

“Hmm.” Geralt sighs, voice thick with desire, as Jaskier turns back to him. 

“I’ll take that as a ‘thank you for the ministrations of your talented hands, Jaskier’…” He jokes, taking in the view of Geralt spread out on the bed, admiring his own handwork as he kicks off his travelling shoes. 

He trails off and the Witcher watches as his cerulean blue eyes widen with desire as they fixate on his double’s ass. His stare is entranced as though he’s been cursed, watching the pale muscles of his cheeks clench and writhe against the black satin bedsheets.

“Performance isn’t over yet, bard.” Geralt grunts out, too busy chasing his own pleasure in preparation for more to come to notice the bard inch towards the edge of the bed, letting his knees fall onto the edge as he begins to almost unconsciously unfasten the knotting of his trousers.

“Oh?” Jaskier asks dreamily, watching Geralt stretch, getting into a rhythm as he rolls his hips from side to side to ease the ache is his lower back from days on the road. The movement spreads his posterior, offering the briefest glimpse of his hole, dark and clenching wantonly. 

Jaskier frees himself from the constraints of his clothing and begins to palm his cock, already thick with want, slicking himself up with the leftover oil from his saddle bag. 

“I’ll thank you when I’m satisfied.” Geralt murmurs, oblivious to the bard’s ravenous gaze, drinking him like a man whose been starved of his fill of satisfaction for far too long. 

“And how can I sate your need, dear Witcher?” Jaskier asks, voice honeyed, ever the pleaser. He rolls his shoulders in anticipation, and Geralt’s mind whites out from his omnipotent perspective for a second when he realises, far too late, exactly what Jaskier is expecting to give to him. 

“We’ve got time, oil.” Geralt muses, grunting as he feels pre-come smear against the bedsheet, slicking the rut he’s made for himself, “Let’s do something different.” 

“Sure, yes, anything you want.” Jaskier hurries out in a rush. His fingers clench into a fist to grasp himself tightly at the base as he contemplates what lies ahead. 

“Do you want to be on top?” The Witcher asks breathlessly, wilfully ignorant in his own pigheaded need. Watching the scene play out in retrospective, Geralt could slap himself for his own near sightedness. 

“Of course,” Jaskier’s smile eclipses all else, blinding in its brightness, as he all but falls to his knees on the edge of the bed in his haste to position himself, before faltering, “Are you sure you’re…ready?” 

“Give me a second.” Geralt says with an easy laugh, rolling over onto his back. 

“Like this?” Jaskier frowns, tugging his cock experimentally, shifting to compensate before understanding begins to dawn, disappointment momentarily darkening his pretty features before he chases it away with a warm smile, the sun after a storm.

“How else?” Geralt questions, fisting his own hardness lazily in one hand. With the other, he slaps the meat of his thigh, a clear invitation to mount him. 

“Yes, of course.” Jaskier mumbles, trying painfully hard not to look put out as he clambers into the Witcher’s lap, straddling his thighs. He positions himself over his cock with a mechanical repetitiveness, shoving Geralt’s hand away as he prepares to position his fat cockhead against his tighter entrance. 

“What’s wrong, Jas?” Geralt asks softly, perceptive in all the wrong ways. He grabs Jaskier’s face and dragging him down for a gentle kiss. 

Jaskier sighs into the contact, the tension leaving his body as the breach begins. His rigidness could be mistake for the awkwardness of the initial intrusion, but from an outsider’s glance, Geralt can tell from the set of his shoulders that the upset has to do with more than just physical pain. 

“Did you run out of oil?” Geralt asks stupidly, and he’s never wanted to punch himself squarely in the face more. 

“I want it dry this time.” Jaskier sighs, dropping his head so Geralt can’t see the lie in his eyes as he sits fully, bottoming out, “Really want to feel it this time…” 

Roach’s snort snaps him out of his reverie like a spell, dragging him unwillingly back to the present. 

“Fine, I’m an idiot. Happy?” Geralt groans to Yennefer, where ever she is, watching his revelation. No doubt stirring a cauldron and laughing like the spiteful harpy she is. 

Hundreds of years on the earth, and still he can be so unbelievably blind to the needs of others, so out of touch with humanity. His relationship with Jaskier has always been equal. Why wouldn’t he think that his lover would want to assert his given right as a man, to take instead of always being the taken? 

He urges Roach on into the trail of dust and curses that the bard has left in his murderous wake.


	3. I can't see clearly when you're gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is too busy composing a petty (smutty) ballad to see Geralt struggling to maintain control. The Witcher explains himself when his tongue runs away with him (and all over the bard).

Geralt realises with a pang of discomfort that he’s not only incredibly stupid, but painfully aroused. The movement of the saddle does nothing to ease the situation and he lets himself lean into it rather than sitting up in the stirrups to smooth the way. He immediately regrets his bull-headed haste in leaving the sorceress’ domain, not even bothering to reclaiming his undergarments. 

“Screw you, Geralt!” Jaskier shouts, not bothering to look back or slow his pace, pulling his lute vengefully from its shoulder strap, “You think you can sexually shame me and get away with it? This is definitely going in a song and I’m not even going to feel bad about it!” 

He finds shelter beneath one of the skeletal trees, shaking so hard that he almost snaps one of the strings in his anger as he begins to pluck out a vengeful melody. 

“Fuck.” Geralt groans to himself, his cock awakening as it rubs insistently against his leathers. 

He dismounts less than gracefully, his gait unevenly wide as he walks over to where Jaskier is strumming his instrument far too insistently. 

“Would you put the damn lute down and let me explain?” He grimaces as he storms into the shade. 

“Can’t, I’m afraid. Too busy composing my next ballad.” Jaskier sniffs, not even acknowledging him with an upward glance as he hums tunelessly to himself, “Since you’re so familiar with the context, do you know any words that rhyme with ‘blackguard?’” 

“You’re twisting my words.” Geralt hisses through gritted teeth. 

“Oh, am I? Let me put it plainly.” Jaskier says bitterly, glancing upwards. “Because I’m the one who spreads my legs, that makes me somehow less than?”

His blue eyes flash with hurt and it hits Geralt so hard that his gut clenches. Shame blooms in his chest and traverses it way downward, his cock jerking in interest.

“I never said… that…” Geralt growls, tongue twisting at the realisation, the leather of his gloves rasping as he fists clenched by his sides. 

“You inferred that I was a whore, giving myself up for a night’s board.” Jaskier says accusingly, before his inner lyricist brightens at his own clever turn of phrase, “That’s not a bad rhyme…I think I can work with this…” 

“Jaskier…” His voice sounds strangely broken to his own ears. He tries to step towards the smaller man and his step falters, the powerful magic coursing through him stalling him, making its presence felt. 

“Until you can come up with a comprehensive explanation for your actions, I don’t want to hear it, Witcher.” Jaskier replies coldly. 

When he glares at Geralt, his eyes are ice in his usually lovely face. The coldness shoots down Geralt’s spine like he’s been physically scolded, and his body convulses in on itself in a shudder. 

Ignoring him, Jaskier begins to sing as he strums his lute. 

“In her velveteen eyes, I saw my demise, as the candle lights flicker and glow…

“With the lover’s consent, I prepared for an evening well spent, but I had no idea what was in store…” 

“Enough.” Geralt demands through gritted teeth. His body twists again, and it’s an effort to remain on his feet against the force holding him at arm’s length. 

“If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it.” Jaskier snips spitefully, before continuing his partially composed ballad. 

“In my mind’s eye, he smothered my cries in the crease of his thighs…I wondered, should a man ask for more?”

Geralt’s golden eyes widen before slamming shut, attempting to contain his body’s involuntary reaction to the images that flood his sense. What would have eventuated if he had read the signs correctly the previous night? 

“Oh, fuck.” He grunts aloud, face heating as his cock jerks responsively, spurting pre-come and staining his leathers. 

“But before I could ask, they stuck two cocks up my ass. Such is the life of a whore.” Jaskier ends bitterly. 

He plucks the final chord with a flourish before looking up, force of habit, at his captivated audience. 

His eyes widen when he takes in the Witcher before him, huge frame visibly shaking before him. 

“Are you alright, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, forgetting for a second how angry he is in his concern. 

“Stop…singing…” Geralt grounds out, as though his tongue is made of lead. His feature snarl into a grimace as his torso twists violently, combatting an invisible force. His boot lands heavily as he steps closer, a metre away from the bard standing nervously near the tree’s trunk. 

“Of course, always a bloody critic!” Jaskier huffs, almost throwing his lute as he tosses his hands up in the air in exasperation, “First you insult my manhood, then you insult my livelihood…when does it end?” 

Geralt bites back a howl of frustration as his body acts on impulse without his consent, taking another step forward despite his best attempts to fight the invisible pull. 

“It’s not bad…it’s…affecting me…” He grits out.

He’s so aroused that he can barely see straight, doing his best not to give over to the amplified desire coursing through his body. He wants Jaskier right here, right now, so badly that his body is physically pained with the effort of not complying with his libido’s demands. 

“From that sour look on your face, that’s hardly a compliment!” Jaskier gripes, before frowning, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you moving so strangely?”

“Yennefer’s potion.” He spits, stepping forward again, nearly falling forward with the effort.   
“Oh yes, blame that again, blame everything else but your own emotional inadequacy!” Jaskier cries passionately.

Consumed in his struggle, the Witcher wouldn’t reply if he could’ve. 

“Did you already forget that I drank it first?” Jaskier continues haughtily, ignorant again of his companion’s silence, “If anything, all it’s done is irritate me by emphasising what a proud, stubborn, thoughtless old goat you are! Ease the ache that ails me, my ass…” 

He plants his hands on his hips, settling in for another round. The wind rattles through the skeletal arms of the branches and suddenly Geralt can smell him. The bittersweet salt of sweat from under his armpits and the floral odour of his hastily applied cologne and the clean wooden smell of the lute, the fragrance of his newly pressed doublet; all combining into one intoxicating cocktail. 

“Please…” Geralt practically winces, head bowing as he falls to one knee. The struggle has sapped his strength and he’s not sure how much longer he can fight against his body’s own desperate want. 

“That’s a start, I like that tone on you, Geralt.” Jaskier hums appraisingly, looking down at him with amusement. The praise in his tone makes the Witcher’s cock spurt and he hisses as the sensation, pleasure shooting so intensely through his body that he nearly passes out. 

“…You…need to…leave…” Geralt practically moans, golden eyes rolling back in his head as he attempts to get himself to his feet to no avail. 

“Excuse me? If anyone’s going to bloody sod off, it’s you!” Jaskier hisses furiously, crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest. The movement hits Geralt’s nostrils with another wave of pheromones. 

His hips snap forward, attempting to alleviate the pressure building in his loins. The involuntary motion catches Jaskier’s attention, dragging his glance downward to Geralt’s prominently displayed bulge, visible even as he is bent in on over himself. 

“Are you…erect right now?” Jaskier’s voice is an octave too high. His cheeks bloody with surprise and Geralt can feel his pupils dilate predatorily at the sign of vulnerability. 

“No, I misplaced my dagger, what does it fucking look like?” Geralt pants out harshly, swallowing hard as his thighs clench wildly, desperate for any friction to alleviate the maddening ache.

“You’re getting off on this!” Jaskier’s impossible large blue eyes widen further, scandalised, “On…on…shaming me intimately then having to beg for my forgiveness, is that it?” 

Despite his outward horror, the bard’s own cock twitches traitorously in interest. It tents the material of his brightly coloured pants, clearly presented and unconcealed.   
The sight makes Geralt’s mouth flood with saliva, dripping from the edges before he can catch himself. His cock spits in tandem, intense tendrils of heat unfurling from the roots of his white hair down to his curling toes. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He chants to himself, eyes slamming closed. He feels embarrassingly close to coming in his own riding trousers against his will, and he’s so keyed up that he can’t focus on anything other than the single-minded desire. 

“Holy Mother Melitele, Geralt.” Jaskier breathing hard now, unconsciously palming his own cock, “I knew that you were into some less than pedestrian pursuits sexually, but this is something else entirely.” 

“It’s not like that.” Geralt implores, finally managing to drag himself to his feet in a dizzying show of strength. 

“Shit.” His golden eyes widen in horror as his feet begin to advance ominously in Jaskier’s direction. 

“I’ll explain later…once I figure out what this is…what it’s doing… but you need to go, now or…” 

“Or what? I’m not going anywhere until you tell me!” The bard yelps, nearly tripping over in his haste to back up. 

He freezes like a startled animal when his back collides, hard with the immovable bulk of the tree trunk. 

Geralt moves with inhuman speed, his body suddenly inches away. From this vantage point, Jaskier’s mouth drops open as he can see clearly that something isn’t right; sweat drips from the Witcher’s usually spotless brow, damp strands of his white hair hanging in his face, pupils’ black holes in the ocean of his golden eyes, engorged predatorily. 

His broad shoulders rise and fall with the effort of restraining himself, chest heaving as he pants laboriously. Below his waist, his enormous cock is straining so hard in the confines of his pants that it looks as though it might burst through the seams at any moment. 

“What happening?” Jaskier whispers, reaching up to gently touch Geralt’s face, earlier anger forgotten, “Talk to me, please.” 

The Witcher flinches away but then leans heavily into the touch as though drawn to the contact. 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt begins finally, tongue suddenly loose and plaint as though he were drunk and unable to keep the words in. He ducks his head to turn his mouth into Jaskier’s palm and mouthing at it, sloppy and wet. 

“This is my kind of apology.” Jaskier says lightly, unable to suppress a moan. 

“Yennefer likes to exploit people’s weaknesses, make them vulnerable.” Geralt explains hurriedly between kisses, before moving to attack the bard’s neck, nipping and suckling as he goes, “Enjoying her company is a trade off – the pleasure experienced always seems to come at a cost, and I didn’t want her to come between us.” 

“Well aren’t you chatty all of a sudden? All I heard was come and us.” Jaskier huffs with a laugh, throwing his head back with a thud against the hard wood as Geralt tears off the top button of his doublet ravenously and makes his way down his chest, leaving a trail of bruises in his wake, “I understand, but I was as willing to take that risk as you were. I don’t think she would ever intentionally hurt us.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt hums non-committally. He pulls off with a regretful wince, attempting to focus on his words rather than the overwhelming urge to tear Jaskier’s clothes to shreds with his bare hands, “I will give Yen one thing. Amongst her various gifts is that of sight, and for as long as the effects of this potion last, she has shared that with me.” 

“You do tend to think with the head in your pants rather than the one on my shoulders!” Jaskier giggles at his own bawdy joke, pawing at Geralt’s chest hungrily, “So if you can see through my clothes, why aren’t you ripping them off right now?”

A fresh drag of arousal sweeps over the Witcher, threatening to pull him under and he slams his palm against the tree at either side of Jaskier’s head. 

“You wanted me to speak plainly, so listen while I still can!” He warns, teeth bared and presence looming. 

“You’re starting to scare me…” Jaskier replies hesitantly, glancing from side to side to take in the Witcher’s attractively straining forearms. He searches his face warily before shrugging, the gentle slope of his shoulders rising and falling, “But it’s absurdly hot. Do continue.” 

“You’re not a whore. I’ve never thought you as such.” Geralt rushes out, his cheeks flooded with heat, unable to stop the words pouring from his chest, “You give yourself freely…and that in itself is brave…” 

“You’re starting to kill my buzz here. Get to the point.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, but sighs fondly. When his gaze fixes back on the man in front of him, it is dreamily unfocused. 

“What I mean to say is…you are not just something to be…had. You choose to be taken, but that doesn’t mean you can’t…” Geralt tries to explain, words twisting in his mouth. He knows what he wants to convey but his tongue suddenly feels too heavy again, saliva flooding his mouth. His palms grow hot as desire twists in his gut. 

“Sssh…” Jaskier cuts him off with a rough kiss, wrapping his leg around the Witcher’s waist. 

He may have lied somewhat about the effects of the potion in his earlier rant. While the impact hasn’t been as pronounced, he does feel more confident, unafraid to express his view points and of initiating the physicality between them. His talented tongue slides in the Witcher mouth, sure and hot and wet, exploring and coaxing guttural growls from the larger man’s chest. 

Their breathing is laboured when they separate, chests heaving against each other from the exertion.

“Enough talking.” The bard commands, looking the Witcher directly in the eyes, too full lips twisting cleverly, “Words have never been your strong point, but action is. Show me.” 

“What?” Geralt asks stupidly, head swimming. He can feel the magic taking root in the fibres of his being, taking control of animating his movements and influencing his mind. After hours of struggling, he’s powerless to fight its pull and gives over to its will. 

“Show me what you mean.” Jaskier urges, dropping his head as he unceremoniously kicks off his shoes. 

His hands shaking in anticipating, he clumsily unlaces his breaches, pushing them down. 

“Here?” Geralt gapes, inhaling sharply when he realises his partner isn’t wearing any undergarments beneath his travelling clothes. His nostrils flare instinctively and he inhales the scent of drying sweat clinging to the thick swathe of public hair that is exposed. 

“Now.” Jaskier sighs as he exposes the weeping head of his prick to the hot summer air.

His thighs tense, abused hole clenching sympathetically in remembrance. Though Yennefer’s concoction has eased some of the ache, he is still sore from the previous night’s romp. His sweat and the barest slick of his own arousal won’t be enough to take the monstrosity that is the Witcher’s cock, but he can’t bring himself to wait a second longer. 

He braces himself, preparing to be taken up against the tree in the sweltering heat. 

He isn’t prepared for Geralt to drop to his knees in front of him for all the world to see. 

“I want you so badly, I ache with it.” Geralt groans, breath punching out of his lungs like a dying man. His golden eyes are mesmerising, sparkling with unspoken need. Shifting his knees to get comfortable, his untended arousal hangs heavily between his legs. 

“But not here, not like this…”

“If this is the will of whatever is coursing through your system, then there is no point in delaying it.” Jaskier frowns, cupping his hand under the kneeling man’s chin, to make him understand he’s with him in this. 

“I may not be able to… control myself...” Geralt shakes his head, still desperately trying to fight the powerful magic that is consuming him. It snaps back the other way and he cries out in pain as his neck seizes. 

“Stop, it damn it! I won’t have you hurt over this!” Jaskier cries out, gripping his face hard. 

He wonders what the spell needs to relent the strange hold it seems to have over Geralt and is struck ironically with the thought that it must have something to do with his consent. Yennefer really does have a sick sense of humour. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” He mutters to Yennefer wherever she is, to himself, before clearing his throat and addressing the prone Witcher kneeling before him. 

“You can take me here, I’m ready…” He says loudly and clearly, both to Geralt and to Yennefer, wherever she is. 

Any further attempts at conversation are lost on Jaskier’s part when he takes him in one hand and swallows his length in a single, smooth slurp.


End file.
